Fade Into Life
by ColieMacKenzie
Summary: The moment she set foot into this place on Broome St, she had felt at home, had felt an attachment she couldn't quite explain... Pre-season to S4-ish AU. Alternative version to my story 'Fade Into Light' (see author's note). COMPLETE.


_a/n: This is an alternate-ending version to my story 'Fade Into Light', previously posted in 5 parts. R_ _ather than post just the alternate portion,_ _I decided to post the entire story separately again - so that it is a whole story for any of you who are new to it._

 _To those of you who have read 'Fade Into Light' and are interested in the alternate ending, feel free to scroll down midway through part 5._

 _To those of you who haven't read 'Fade Into Light': This story, 'Fade Into Life', is categorized as Romance/Angst. 'Fade Into Light' is Romance/Supernatural. There is a reason for that! Pointing that out is a bit of a spoiler, if you will, so that's all I can say. :)_

 _Pick_ _whichever category appeals to you more, and continue below (for Romance/Angst), or surf over to my profile and read 'Fade Into Light' (for Romance/Supernatural)._

* * *

 **FADE INTO LIFE**

* * *

 **(1)**

* * *

Kate let her eyes wander around the vast space, couldn't believe her luck. The loft was huge; high ceilings and modern appliances, large windows that sent the light sprawling across the gleaming hardwood floors; even a rooftop with a view of Manhattan that made her heart pound. It had three bedrooms, two more than she even needed, technically, but at this asking price, it would simply be stupid to turn it down. It'd be a great investment for the future. The apartment was significantly lower priced than what a space like this would go for right in the heart of New York City, a fact that threw up several red flags for Kate, yet no matter how often she'd looked over and analyzed the paperwork, the specs, the details, there was nothing there that warranted the low pricing. Well except for the silly ghost rumor.

Supposedly, the loft was haunted; prior potential buyers backing out before setting down the final signatures, and even the last painting crew who'd come in here had fled the building, claiming a sighting.

Kate wasn't going to be scared away by a silly story. The moment she'd set foot into this place on Broome Street, she had felt at home, had felt an attachment she couldn't quite explain, to the quirky bookshelves that doubled as walls, the large picture window, the sparkling white kitchen, the open staircase that curved upstairs along a wall of raw brick, its unique character. It was more modern than her usual taste, more than her current apartment - and she really loved her place, had had a hard time making peace with the fact that she'd have to move out. The owners were modernizing the whole building which voided her rent control, and even if she could keep her claim on her apartment, it would be easily a year until all renovations were done, and where was she to stay until then?

Her savings and her regular income and employment status from the NYPD allowed her to attempt to purchase her own apartment, but never in a million years would she have expected to find a gem like this!

"I'll take it!" She shook her realtor's hand.

Upstairs, a door slammed shut.

* * *

Her furniture was set up, the last of the boxes dragged inside and stacked in various rooms, the pizza boxes and beer cans emptied that she'd provided to the guys from the precinct to thank them for helping her move. She gathered up used napkins, empty cans and water bottles, stuffed everything in a garbage bag and carried it along with the empty pizza cartons into the hall to the garbage chute.

Back in her loft, she let out a deep breath, let the silence settle over her as her gaze wandered her new home. It was a bit odd, she thought, what the previous owners or their family had left behind. Some furniture had stayed, oversized prints of an elephant and a lion still hung on the bedroom wall, and a grand piano sat before the large picturesque window, its black gloss surface gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight. She sank onto the piano bench, lifted the lid, reverently ran her fingertips across the keys. She had had some lessons as a kid though she'd never been very good at it, but she'd always loved the resonating sounds of a piano in a vast, echoing space.

Kate barely managed to pull her fingers away when the lid slammed shut, and she jumped off the bench, her heart pounding. But it remained still; silence filling the loft once more, so she shrugged it off. Probably a draft somewhere.

She started unpacking in the office, lifting her books from the moving boxes and organizing them into the many shelves, the classics on one side, her mystery collection on the other. Her Richard Castle set got its own shelf, and she traced the spines lovingly as she set them into the shelf. Such a loss, that there'd be no more of his works. She'd gone and bought every one of his that she hadn't already owned when the author had died several months ago, his life so tragically cut short by a drunk driver. Kate had read them all, mourning his genius and bemoaning the loss of his words.

She shivered, noticing how cold it suddenly felt, goose bumps breaking out across her skin. Odd. She knew she had set the temperature to a comfortable 73. Kate moved on to the desk, setting out some office supplies, sliding paperwork into drawers. She'd warm up from moving around.

When she looked up a while later, the Castle books looked orderly like soldiers, spine to spine sitting exactly perpendicular to the edge of the shelf. She didn't recall lining them up with such attention to detail.

The afternoon blended into nighttime as she worked, making as much headway as she could in every room. She liked to have her things in order, preferred to control her environment to make her feel at home, cozy and comfortable; a retreat from the danger and depravity of her job.

The wind started howling outside, a storm front moving in fast, bringing with it a forceful thunderstorm that rattled the windows, lightning cracking through the black skies, zigzagging in untamed patterns. Kate went into the kitchen, set the kettle onto the stove to make some tea. Just as she flipped on the burner, everything went dark.

'Oh great,' she muttered, her mind retracing her steps when she had packed her boxes to figure out where she might've put a flashlight, or candles. A flash of lightning sparked, illuminated the loft in ghostly white light, and Kate found herself face to face with the specter of a man, large and broad-chested, looming over her, his face scrunched tight with anger.

Kate's heart was pounding, her fingers shaking with shock even as the specter disappeared when the flash of lightning faded. She felt ice-cold, wondered if she could see her breath if it were any lighter in the apartment, and she knew, inexplicably knew that he was still there.

"Who are you?" Her voice sounded shaky even to her own ears.

"You know who I am," a voice growled back, and Kate instinctively took a step back, her butt bumping against the kitchen counter.

Her mind was racing, her blood pumping fast, a mix of fear and disbelief churning in her stomach. This couldn't be real, right? There were no ghosts. Maybe she was dreaming, had fallen asleep somewhere while unpacking without realizing?

More lightning, long jagged flashes of pale purple and he still loomed before her, broad and overwhelming her, intimidating yet- not. He did look familiar, and his eyes were stark, piercing blue.

"You're- Richard Castle?" It was half-statement, half-question; he looked just like him yet Richard Castle was dead, and she was more certain than ever that she was dreaming. She'd been thinking of him, arranging his books, so of course he'd stolen his way into her dreams. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Yes, I am," he growled. "And this is _my_ home. And you, you need to get out."

She startled. She had bought Richard Castle's loft? Something fell to the ground and shattered into what sounded like a thousand pieces on the stone kitchen tiles, pots and pans rattling in the box that was still sitting unpacked on the floor.

"Hey, knock it off!" She scolded, anger rising through her. She dealt with criminals and murderers daily, she wasn't just going to scare by some dream ghost in her head. "I live here now!"

"Well I'm not leaving."

"Neither will I," she growled back, determined as she strode past him, or where she assumed he might be hovering around, making her way back to the bedroom for the candles. There were no ghosts, and this was ridiculous. The cold breeze seemed to follow her so she whirled around, stabbed her finger into the dark nothingness.

"Guess we'll just have to learn to co-exist."

* * *

Richard Castle was mad. Steaming! Who did she think she was, waltzing into his home, her things strewn all over his furniture, her scent invading the loft. Although- She did smell good. Like... Cherries, maybe? Yeah that was it.

And she was beautiful. Just stunning. He watched her move around, the shapely length of her legs and the curve of that butt, wow. Her profile sharp with those high cheekbones, long forehead and straight nose and a subtle, inviting curve to her mouth. Did he really just say 'long forehead'? His writing style clearly was deteriorating. He'd have to work on that.

Determination set her features and it was hot, the way she strode around, the sound of her voice, that fiery spark in her eyes.

But never mind that. She couldn't just live here. He'd scare her away in no time.

* * *

Kate's alarm blared at 6:30 and she startled into wakefulness, her eyes bleary and limbs feeling sleep-drunk. She stretched and rose, sliding into her robe to make a cup of coffee before her shower. She felt refreshed, realized she hadn't slept this well in quite some time.

She had crawled into bed last night, curled onto her side and snuggled in under the thick duvet. The wind was still howling outside, rain smacking against the window panes and thunder booming; a door seemed to slam closed, then she heard the sound of running water, and the grating sound of nails scratching on wood. She shrugged it off; new places always have strange sounds, she argued with herself, and dug for a pair of ear plugs. With every sound cut off and only pulsating silence and the beat of her own heart, she'd quickly given into the exhaustion of her day.

The electricity was back on, and she filled her coffee maker with grounds, flipped on the switch. With the comforting sounds of the vitalizing liquid percolating, she walked back into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.

* * *

This woman, oh, this woman! Everyone else who'd intruded had scared away easily enough and she - she didn't even budge! Did nothing scare her? She'd just ignored him!

Castle sniffed, inhaled deeply. Coffee. Ooooh.

How he missed the flavor of coffee.

* * *

When Kate came home after work, all her photo frames were kicked over, picture side face down on the shelves or floor, every book had been flicked off the shelves - except the Richard Castle collection - and all her toiletries messed up on the counter in the bathroom.

"Really?" She growled into the void, and then set to work, righting every misplaced item.

"Is that all you got?" She challenged the silent loft. She wouldn't exactly say she believed in ghosts, or even this ghost. Was still mostly convinced she'd dreamt his whole appearance in her home. But if, _if_ he did exist, she certainly wasn't going to let some arrogant, self-centered writer win.

"You aren't going to get rid of me that easily!"

* * *

 **(2)**

* * *

The days passed quickly, uneventfully. Well, mostly. Every day, Castle roamed his home, making a mess of things, and every evening when Kate came home after work, she'd just straighten it all and go about her normal routine. Every night he'd rattle windows and flush the toilet and make the doors creak, and she wasn't phased in the slightest.

It made him so angry, that she just didn't react at all, and then, almost subtly, he wasn't so angry anymore. He didn't notice it for a while until one evening when she opened the door, and his heart leapt, excited for her to be home. That night he didn't rattle the windows, or made doors creak or flushed the toilet. He just let her rest. And yes, okay, he may have watched her sleeping just a little bit. She wore pajamas so it was only invading her privacy a little bit, he reasoned. As angry as he'd been, he'd always stayed away from the bathroom, and had shrank back through the wall when she was about to change.

He couldn't exactly say what it was about her, but she intrigued him. Maybe her determination, with him, and with all of her life. She was a detective, he'd found out, worked for the NYPD. If he were still a writer he thought he'd write about her. She was... extraordinary.

And he hadn't realize how lonely he'd become until her relentless presence in his home. He'd roam the loft, bored all day, listlessly flipping over picture frames or mess up the order in her kitchen cupboards, until Kate came home and he could watch her, pretend he could talk with her. He watched TV with her when she settled on the couch with a bowl of popcorn and a movie popped in the DVD player, and read over her shoulder when she immersed herself into a book, noticing the way she'd bite her nails during suspenseful parts, or the startled breath falling from her lips at a surprising twist.

* * *

Kate sank down next to the victim, took in the rose petals covering the woman's body, the sunflowers on her eyes.

'Flowers for your Grave,' she thought wistfully.

And then she got to work.

* * *

For obvious reasons, Richard Castle was neither a suspect, nor could he be called in for questioning or clues in the case. Kate dismissed the thought that crept into her head - that maybe she could talk to him, maybe he was there after all? No. She was being ridiculous. He was dead. And they had other avenues, 'real' police work to do.

His publisher provided boxes of fan-mail they had been keeping, and after her team had separated the mourning letters after his death from all others, they set to work, slogging through pages and pages until they had found a link - to Kyle Cabot.

At home that night, Kate settled into bed, but her mind kept racing, the questions never shutting off. Something just didn't add up, kept nagging at her. Kyle had been arrested and it'd been easy and clean - too easy, too clean.

"Castle?" She spoke the word into her empty bedroom, felt silly even while she did it. It had only been a dream, and everything else that had been happening - it was the draft that probably knocked over the picture frames, or old pipes, and who knows why books fell from shelves; maybe there'd been a small earthquake? Plus, it had pretty much stopped happening anyway. It had all been just a figment of her imagination. Right?

"I'm here, Kate." The voice answered, a chilly draft caressing her arms and she shivered, tugged her blanket over herself. Her heart leapt, it didn't know any better. Had she known he would answer; had she always known that he was truly there, just this presence, always with her?

"Someone-" She started, stopped, gathered her thoughts and wondered what she was even doing. "Someone has been murdering people, staging them like in some of your books."

He gasped. The curtains rustled and whispered.

Kate took a deep breath. "I could need your help."

* * *

"We got him!" She announced as she marched into their home, the door falling closed behind her. Her cheeks were flushed, the energy radiating off her body was almost palpable and he was drawn to her like a magnet.

"Yessss!" Rick fist-bumped, feeling satisfied for the first time in a long while. "Tell me everything."

Kate sat on the couch, and he sat down next to her while she recounted how they had nailed down Tisdale.

* * *

It became routine, after that. Kate would tell him about her cases, and he'd give her input, find theories or asked questions. Many were completely outlandish and ridiculous, and she wasn't shy about telling him so, and he'd scoff, and they'd argue and bicker and tease.

And sometimes his insights turned out to be invaluable. Her solve rate went up, and she found herself looking forward to coming home and sharing her day, to just- talk to him. He made her laugh, made it fun. She felt- lighter, somehow.

He was- a friend. A really great friend, and she didn't much think about the fact that he wasn't 'real', that he wasn't actually, physically there. He felt real to her. She'd wondered, on occasion, whether she was going crazy, yet she'd never felt more balanced. He made her job, her _life_ a little more fun.

* * *

One morning she woke up and the scent of fresh coffee had filled her loft, was tickling her nose. She rose, knuckled the grit of sleep from her eyes, and draped a robe over herself before she shuffled into the kitchen.

"Good morning." His voice whispered near her. "Made you some coffee."

A coffee mug was sitting on the kitchen counter, steam still rising from its surface. She reached for it, lifted the mug to her nose, and inhaled deeply, her eyes closing at the warm, invigorating scent. She took a sip, tasted the hint of vanilla infused into the dark liquid.

"Mmm. Just how I like it," she hummed, drank another sip.

"Of course. I know how you like your coffee, Kate."

"So how often _are_ you watching me?" She teased, raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

"As often as I can get away with. Which is a lot, since you can't see me..."

"No fair. I don't get to watch you!"

"Would you like to? You find me hot, don't you. I mean, I really am ruggedly handsome."

She scoffed. "You really are full of herself, is what you are. I just better never catch you in my bathroom!"

"Of course not!" He sounded affronted. "I won't invade your privacy like that. I respect you, Kate."

She startled, could hear he meant it in his voice. "I know," she nodded, took another sip of her coffee. "I know."

Her coffee was waiting for her every morning, after that.

* * *

She told him, one day. About her mother. After a particularly harrowing case that left her drained, a deep sadness radiating off her.

He wanted to touch her, hug her so badly that it hurt.

"Have you seen her, maybe, wherever _you_ are? Is she okay?" She wondered, sniffling into a handkerchief. He felt broken.

"No," he said, shaking his head even though she couldn't see it. "I'm just- always here. I can't seem to leave, can't seem to _be_ anywhere else but here, in this loft."

"Why?" She turned watery eyes at him, as if she knew where he was, and he felt cleaved, her pain and his pain intertwining, making him one with her.

"I don't know. Maybe it's because it was the last place where I was happy?" She nodded, seemed to accept that answer. Though he was no longer sure it was the truth.

He was pretty certain he was there because of her. For her. Kate.

"Tell me about that," she pleaded, and so he told her - about Alexis, his amazing daughter, so smart and vivacious, and his mother, fun-loving and exuberant, who had just moved in with them when he had his accident. He didn't know what had happened to them; it'd been as if he'd risen from deep within a white fog, no sense of timing or space, to find his loft devoid of the people he loved the most, and he couldn't seem to leave these four walls to find out. He'd hoped that if only he kicked out everyone who tried to invade his space, then one day they would come back, but they never had.

"It was probably too painful for them, to be back here," Kate said, and he nodded, the sorrow choking the breath from his lungs.

"Yeah."

* * *

That night, Kate curled onto her side in bed, wrapped her comforter tightly around her body, her limbs tucked in and her face half-buried in the pillows. She felt cleaved, filled with sorrow, both hers and his, and she felt lonely in ways she hadn't since he'd invaded her home.

"I wish I could see you," she whispered into the darkness, knowing he was close. He was always close, she knew it as certainly as she knew the sky was blue. "Feel you."

"Kate."

He sounded so forlorn that her heart felt like it was breaking. "I could use a hug."

"Maybe... maybe we can," he murmured, and then she felt the shift of her comforter along her skin even though she didn't touch it - like ghost hands moving it and she'd giggle if it didn't feel so real, 'ghost hands' - and then, instead of the constant chill, she felt a warmth all around her. A layer of heat surrounding her - like skin pressed against skin and the heavy warmth of another body.

"I can feel you," she sniffed, crying and laughing at the same time, the joy of it welling through her. "I feel you."

* * *

 **(3)**

* * *

"I brought you something," she said when she walked into the door the next evening. Kate moved over to the couch and sank into it, patted the cushion next to her.

"Come sit with me."

He appeared by her side, sat down beside her. She dug her fingers into her briefcase that she had placed next to her ankles, and pulled a slim rectangular frame from its depths. Sitting up straight, she seemed to be holding her breath as she turned over the frame and presented it to him.

Tears sprang to his eyes and he abstractly thought that he didn't know he could still cry, that he could still feel the heat of the salty trails as they coursed down his cheeks.

"It's the best one I could find," she said quietly, almost apologetic and he didn't understand why.

"It's- It's perfect," he whispered, reverently traced his fingers across the image. It was a publicity photo, taken at one of his last book parties - his mother, Martha, framing him to one side, Alexis on the other, in that green pea coat that brought out the vibrancy of her hair. They were smiling, all three of them. Happy.

"Not everything had been perfect, you know," he explained, not sure whether he was telling Kate, or reminding himself. Remembered nights, weeks, months of writers block, bad reviews that dragged him down, a string of flings with women who cared only about his money, the unfortunate incidences where he'd acted first and thought later, and the subsequent, unflattering coverage in the society pages.

"But this here, _this-_ It made everything worthwhile." He swallowed, blinked the sheen from his eyes that had clouded his view like a curtain. Kate was smiling softly, warmth and understanding in her gaze and more than anything he wanted to feel her palm curved to his cheek in comfort, to tug her into his arms, and never let her go.

"They're doing okay," she said at last, and his mouth fell open, his heart hammering against his ribs.

"Alexis lives with Martha. They have a two bedroom apartment in So-Ho. Martha has opened a small acting school. It's pretty successful already, and she dedicated it to you. There's a plaque in the entrance foyer, with a picture of you, and a quote from one of your books." There was a small grin in her voice and he had to laugh with her, despite the pain of missing his mother.

"Alexis goes to her same school, her grades are still good, and she's joined the after-school writing club as well." He smiled, filled with pride at his smart, resilient child.

"She looked alright."

"You saw her?"

"Yeah," she nodded. "I hung out near her school for a while this afternoon, waited until classes let out and she was walking out. She's sad, I could tell she was, but she has her friends, and your mother. She was holding up okay."

He gulped down the knot in his throat, nodding, choked on his words. "Thank you, Kate."

"Of course."

They sat in silence, with only the flame of the gas fireplace crackling like background music. At last Kate rose, stepping over to the piano. She sat the black frame on top of the gleaming black surface.

"How about right here?"

He nodded, missing them so much that everything hurt, in ways he didn't know he could hurt.

"Perfect."

* * *

She couldn't stop crying, the night that she had to shoot Dick Coonan. It was the first time ever that he stepped into her bathroom. He watched her scrub her hands under running water until they looked red and raw.

"It wasn't your fault," he murmured soothingly. "You had no choice." It'd been Espo or Coonan, she had told him between heart-wrenching sobs when she'd come home, and his heart was cracking open for her. He knew what it meant for her - the only lead to her mother's murder, and he had died, taking all his answers with him.

She kept scrubbing at her hands and he reached over, turned off the faucet. "You did the right thing."

Kate sobbed, stumbled backwards against the bathroom wall, and sank down the cool tiles to the floor.

"I wish I could see you," she whispered, her forehead sinking to her knees. She looked forlorn, and so small. He'd never once thought of her as small; she wasn't invulnerable but she was strong, always stood tall. Yet huddled against the wall, her arms clasped around her knees she looked young and small and he would've done anything and everything he could to help her - to give her strength, and peace, and answers; to make her happy.

He flipped off the main light, plunged the bathroom into complete darkness. Next he turned on the shower, ran the water on full hot, until steam was billowing through the room in large swirling clouds. He didn't know if this was going to work, but he lit the candles that were grouped together on her counter - one, two, three. The flickering light barely cut through the thick humid fog, leaving the room in a yellow, soupy haze.

"Castle." She gasped, her voice almost toneless, as if anything louder than a whisper would break the magic between them. "I see you. I can see you." Kate kept staring at him as he approached her, sank down next to her, her eyes wide with astonishment.

And then she barreled into him with a sob, her arms winding around his shoulders, fingers gripped to his neck and the back of his sweater. "Rick."

He caught her, wrapped his arms around her and dragged her into his chest, marveling at the fact that he could feel her, actually feel her in his arms, so lithe and warm and strong, the beat of her heart rapid where he could feel it against his skin.

"Shhhh," he hummed, ran his fingers up and down her back, up and down, soothing her until her tears ran dry and her sobs calmed to quiet hiccups.

"You'll get them some day, Kate." She pulled away slightly, her forehead sinking to his. "You'll get them."

* * *

Kate had a date. Lanie had set her up with some firefighter, featured as Mr. June in the calendar and she really, really didn't want to go - but what was she going to tell her friend? That she'd rather be at home with her ghost friend with whom she might be in love?

Her eyes flew open and she stared at herself in the mirror. Was she falling in love with Rick? Her heart was racing and she rose her hand to her chest, trapped the heavy beat beneath her fingertips.

"Wow. You look amazing," he said once she stepped out her bedroom. She felt herself blushing, bit her lip as she looked down at her red dress that swirled around her thighs, the hem caressing just above the knees.

"Thank you."

She stood frozen in her entryway, didn't feel ready to go though she knew that she should. She wondered if he was staring at her, if his eyes were tracing the length of her legs, her dress as it curved over her hips, her naked shoulder left free by the fabric.

"I- I should really go."

"Yeah." He cleared his throat. "You should go."

* * *

Castle roamed the loft, restlessly tracked from room to room, up the stairs then back down, in and out of the kitchen, the living room, the office. Time seemed to lose all meaning as he waited for her to come home. Jealousy churned in his stomach, even though he tried to push it down, tried to deny its existence. He had no right to be jealous, no right to her. He was-

He was in love with her. Hopelessly, in that forever kind of way.

He loved her.

He curled up on her bed, buried his nose in her pillow where the cherry scent was strongest, and it made him feel warm and at home and so unbelievably happy.

She deserved to be happy, too. She deserved everything beautiful that the world could give her, deserved to be loved and treasured and taken care of, even when she could take care of herself just fine.

And he could never be the man who'd give her all of that. He was- a ghost, a specter, a soul or spirit; even he couldn't tell what he was. He no longer existed. He wouldn't be able to make her happy, he could never really have her.

The front door slammed shut and he startled into awareness, made his way to the entry.

"How was your date?"

"Total bust." She grinned, didn't seem too bothered and he had to try hard not to let the joy he felt resonate in his voice. "Boring, and completely self-involved."

"You took off your dress!"

"Don't sound so shocked." He heard the teasing in her voice. "Had to go back in to work; we had a break-through." She lifted a paper sack into sight. "Just picked myself up some dinner at Remy's."

"Burger and a strawberry milkshake?"

"You got it."

He kept her company while she ate her late dinner, listened to her voice as she told him about her latest case, half-drowning in the sweet melody of her inflections. She was so beautiful when she spoke, animated and passionate, her eyes sparkling and her hands gesticulating with her words.

Yet he couldn't forget his earlier realization, told himself that he could never forget again that she needed, _deserved_ to have a life apart from him, without him.

"You deserve to be happy, Kate," he said, and her eyes startled up to his, her mouth open. He wanted nothing more than to lean in and kiss her, taste the strawberry shake on her lips. It was tearing him apart but he had to- He had to.

"I can't be that man for you."

* * *

 **(4)**

* * *

Things were different. She couldn't pinpoint what it was, at first, but as time went on, he seemed quieter and quieter. Distant.

Her coffee still waited for her every morning, and they still solved cases together, but he didn't tease her as much, didn't flirt anymore.

He was there and yet it felt like absence. She missed him.

And then- She met Demming.

* * *

She wasn't interested, at first. Dating another cop reminded her too much of the disaster with Will, but he kept showing up, helping her with cases, bringing her coffee.

The thought occurred to her that Castle did all these things for her as well. She thought of the man, broad-chested and blue-eyed and kind, the specter of him in every part of her life, and her heart skipped, and her stomach fluttered. And then she remembered what he'd said, and wiped the thought of him from her mind - or at least, tried to. What they had - it wasn't real. _He_ wasn't real.

Okay, he was very real to her, but to no one else in this world. He'd been right, of course.

So she said yes, when Demming asked her out on a date, and then on a second one. She found herself enjoying his company, his calm strength and quiet assurance, and when he kissed her in a corner of the precinct, her fingertips tingled.

* * *

Castle was quiet and somehow it seemed like she felt his presence more than ever, looming just nearby.

"He asked me to come to his family's beach house with him, for Memorial Day," she told him, one day in mid-May.

"What-" He cleared his throat, and seconds seemed to tick by before he continued. "What did you say?"

"I said I'd think about it."

"Is it serious? With him?" He sounded subdued, and it tore at her heart, but she felt helpless to do anything else. They were stuck.

"I don't know, Rick. It could be." She nodded, wasn't sure if it was for his benefit, or to convince herself. She wasn't sure of anything any longer.

"You should give him a chance, Kate. He's a good guy."

Her eyes widened, and she found herself wishing for a thunderstorm, for a stark flash of lightning that would bring his specter to light so that she could see his face, his expression, see the color of his eyes.

"What about you?"

"I..." His voice was raw and fear clawed at her; she knew she wouldn't like whatever came next.

"I think I need to go... for a while. You need to find your happiness, and I'm in your way. I'm your safety-net, Kate. But as much as I want to make you happy, I can't."

"Where will you go?" Tears streamed down her face, the pain of his loss an almost visceral thing as it ripped through her. "I thought you can't be anywhere else but here?"

"If I'm not here then it's just white. Like thick fog. Or clouds. Don't worry about me; time or space doesn't seem to exist there."

* * *

She sniffed, wiped her eyes with the sleeve of her sweater, her gaze rising to his as if she could see him, see right through him.

He couldn't tell her that he couldn't watch her fall for another guy, that it was ripping his heart out to even imagine her with someone else. It was a selfish thought; the two of them were an impossible idea. And they both knew it.

Rick reached for her, swiped his thumbs across her cheekbones to collect the trails of her tears, and she tilted her cheek into his touch. She blinked, exhaled as if in relief.

"Just- Don't go too far, please? Can you do that for me?"

He nodded, then remembered she couldn't see him. "Yes," he croaked, his voice rough with his own tears. "I can do that."

He'd do anything for her.

* * *

Memorial Day weekend came nearer, and the more days had passed, the more torn Kate felt. She'd wanted to say yes, her brain told her she should, yet her gut would flare up in protest, like ice-cold tentacles tearing away at her flesh. What was wrong with her? Demming was a good guy, he'd be good to her, good for her. She could be happy.

She had been happy, her mind objected, fiercely, determined. With Castle. And it was crazy and impossible and yet it felt so real, and she missed him, more with every day. Her loft was too quiet, lonely and dark in the night.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, had trouble looking the detective in the eye when she spoke the words that would break his heart.

"This just isn't what I'm looking for right now."

And she watched his face fall, watched Demming walk out of her precinct floor, and out of her life.

* * *

"Castle! Are you here?" Her voice echoed through the vastness of the loft, drew him back until he found himself appearing in front of her. She stood in the entry, turning in a small circle. Her hair was wild, tousled from the storm that was howling outside, her eyes watery yet fierce, sparkling with determination.

"Rick, please," she pleaded for him, and a sob tore from her throat even as she tried to suppress it.

"I'm here."

He could sense her relief when he spoke; almost tangible, like a flavor in his mouth. It matched his own. God he had missed her.

"I broke up with him."

"What? Kate, why?"

"Because he wasn't- I wasn't-" She growled in frustration, her fists balled, and then her eyes rose to his, her determined expression softening as if she could see him, as if she was looking right at him.

"I want _you_. I just want you, Rick."

He surged for her, couldn't help it, his hands framing her face as he sought her mouth. She opened for him, and her lips were so tender as she caressed his. She tasted like rain and cherries and he couldn't get enough. Oh, oooh. This is what he'd wanted, what he'd needed, craved for months, for years, forever. He had no sense of timing, only knew that nothing had ever felt as right as this moment, right here, with Kate. She moaned, a small delectable sound that rolled deep in her throat and the fire of her burned through him, consuming his senses.

"You know this is crazy, right?" He groaned between kisses, his fingers trawling down her spine and her back arched at his touch, her body surging into his. "Impossible."

"I don't care." She dragged her fingers through his hair, pressed a line of soft kisses along his bottom lip. "I don't care."

* * *

She peeled her clothes off, took her time with each piece, savoring the reveal of her body to him to the subtle sound of his breathing, his murmurs of appreciation. Stark-naked, she walked to the side of her bed and turned off the light, plunging the room into darkness, and then she climbed onto her bed, sank down into the nest of pillows behind her head. Strands of milky streetlight filtered in through the windows, giving the room shapes and dimension, and she knew he'd be able to see her. Just like the night when she had first met him, a storm was raging outside; distant thunder boomed across the sky and she hoped for lightning, hoped that its purple brightness would flash through the room and let her see him love her, just once.

"Come here."

And then she felt his warmth all around her, blanketing her, and she could feel him - touching her, kissing her, exploring, attentive as he sought to draw each response from her body. He made love to her, and she could hardly grasp that it was even possible, like this, that it was really happening. It was surreal and yet she felt him like he was flesh and blood and it was the most incredible experience she'd ever had. She clung to him, lost in his warmth and the sensations he drew from her; his touch, the soft curl of his tongue, his kisses everywhere, her body welcoming him, again, and again, until she slumped back in exhaustion, limp and sweaty, and giddy with joy.

"You should always be loved like this," he murmured into her ear, kissing the tender spot beneath her earlobe, and her cheekbone, and down her neck, suckling on her pulse point until she gasped, writhing and wiggling beneath him.

Lightning jagged through the air and she saw him hovering above her, his look solemn, intense. She played her fingers down the lines of his face, curved her palm to his cheek. He leaned into her touch, his eyes closing.

"I love you," she whispered over the crash of a thunderclap, and his eyes flew open, the deep blue of his pupils striking as he looked down at her. Then he kissed her, slow and sweet, and she could feel the curve of his wide smile against her lips.

"And I love you."

"I wish things were different." She sighed, her thumb playing along his bottom lip. "I wish we hadn't missed our chance. I wish we'd had one." The tears came again, unbidden, though she tried to suppress them, didn't want to taint any moment she had with him with sadness.

"I'm sorry, Kate," he buried his face in her neck, murmuring against her skin. "I'm so sorry."

"I know, babe." She trailed her fingers up and down his spine, stopped fighting the tears that still threatened to roll down her cheeks. Theirs was an impossible, insolvable situation. If you couldn't cry about that- "I know. I'm sorry, too."

"You know I'll have to leave, right?"

She nodded. "Yeah." She stared up at the ceiling, watched the shadows dance and couldn't imagine ever being without his presence again. He was dead - objectively speaking - and yet he'd filled her life with more _life_ than she ever thought possible. She'd thought she'd lost that part of herself when her mother died, the part that could love so wholly, so irrevocably.

Suddenly his warmth was surrounding her once more, his body draped atop hers and his hands framing her face. "I want you to be happy, Kate. You _deserve_ to be happy. Don't forget what love feels like." He kissed her, hard and deep, his body pressing her into the mattress and she felt like she was drowning in his kiss, remade by it.

"This is what love feels like. What making love should feel like."

Kate nodded, arched up under him, felt him shudder at her touch, his stomach muscles tensed and his body straining for her. Hooking her knees high over his hips, she brushed her lips to his.

"Maybe you should remind me once more."

* * *

She was so beautiful. He looked down at her, tried to take in every line and feature, everything that was unique about Kate. He hoped that wherever he went, he'd never forget this moment. Any moment he'd been granted with her.

He loved her so much. Rick had never loved anybody the way he loved her, so wholly and all-consuming. _Kate_. Remarkable, frustrating, challenging, extraordinary Kate.

If only they'd had a chance. If only they had met earlier, or he hadn't been driving back so late that night at the same time and the same spot as that drunk jerk.

If only.

Her face was so peaceful as she slept, her lips drawn into a tiny smile, her hair wild and tangled against the pillows. She looked tousled, thoroughly loved. She had an arm slung up next to her head, and the sheet had slid low on her torso, revealing her pale, silky skin smudged by the early dawn light, the soft slope of one breast.

He kissed her softly, savored feeling her lips beneath his, then trailed his index finger down the side of her face, the length of her neck, rested his fingertips over the subtle throb of her pulse beneath the skin - the sign of her life, steady and vibrant.

"I'll always love you," he whispered, felt himself fading away even as he did.

"Always."

* * *

 **(5)**

* * *

It was a hot, humid summer, and she dragged herself through her days, pearls of sweat sluicing down her temples, running in slick rivulets between her breasts.

Her loft was cold, and she knew, logically, that it was the artificial breeze of the AC - yet it seemed like all she felt was its emptiness against her skin; how devoid it was of what - of _who_ \- had brought it to life for her. She'd take a cool shower, and then she'd curl up on her bed, her face buried into the pillows, chasing any hint of scent that lingered, closing her eyes to the film of memory, of every moment she had had with him.

Kate was lonely, and missing him so much that it hurt, deep and visceral, in her stomach and in every muscle, tight knots sitting just at the base of the skull that sent stabbing headaches to her head.

She didn't understand how he'd thought she could be happy without him, when every moment of her life became defined by his absence. She missed discussing cases with him, and his ridiculous theories. She missed her morning coffee; she could never get the flavor quite as perfect as he'd had, even when he had claimed to make it exactly like she did. She missed his laughter, his presence, missed just knowing he was nearby, and how safe and comforted, how _whole_ she'd felt.

She hadn't ever wanted to hurt like that again, and yet here she was.

How he believed she could find somebody else was beyond her. When he'd been the first man, the only man to drag her from the sorrow of her past, to hack away at that wall that she'd built inside to protect herself from heartaches and the debilitating pain of real emotions. He'd reminded her that her life was worth living, that there was more to it than being defined solely by her mother's murder. That it was a gift to be alive. He'd had such hope for her, such trust and belief that she'd do it, that she'd survive this that she was determined to do it, for him - she wanted to try and live for both of them. She just couldn't figure out how.

Maybe it couldn't happen until she put this thing to rest. If she'd found those bastards who'd had Coonan kill her mother, maybe she'd find that peace of mind that was always eluding her.

She stood in front of the large window in the office, staring without seeing the gleaming, sunshine-dipped Manhattan skyline beyond. She reached up, and taped her mother's photograph to a center pane.

Hours later, darkness had subsumed her apartment, the only illumination coming from the desk lamp that she had tilted to shine onto the window instead, highlighting her mother's murder board in stark words and colors. Every fact she knew so far typed in orderly letters onto flash cards, square flecks of green and yellow; key facts underlined in red, and arrows signifying the connections between each clue.

Kate sank back into the desk chair. She didn't feel the ache in her lower back nor the growling of her stomach, felt only the churn of frustration at each unanswered question, every dried-up lead.

* * *

In the fall she met a guy. He was tall and handsome and good to her; smart, too - he was a cardiac surgeon, and whenever she saw him they had inspiring discussions, about philosophy and ethics, breakthrough science or travel. Josh was just as busy as she was, and that suited her just fine. She enjoyed his company whenever they did get together, even while she knew it wasn't enough.

No one and nothing measured up to what she'd had with Rick.

But it was enough for now.

* * *

She didn't realize she was losing herself; would've argued tooth and nail that she was fine, that she had everything under control. She gave all she had within herself to her job, honoring the victims and finding answers for those left behind who deserved them, who needed them. At night she'd sit in her office, stared at her murder board, seeking the answers hidden between the lines that she might have missed until now.

A year had passed since she'd seen Castle for the last time when things started coming to a head, not that she had realized it. The weeks and months seemed to have blended together, passing her by in a blur.

Now the devil had just blinked.

"Beckett, everyone associated with this case is dead."

They'd cornered her - Ryan with his pleading eyes, and Esposito, grim and determined and ready to fight for her, fight _with_ her.

"They killed my mother! What do you want me to do here?"

"Walk away." It was order and request and plea all rolled into one, Espo's voice growly, his eyebrows drawn into a deep frown.

"They're gonna kill you, Kate." She heard the fear in Ryan's voice; understood it, even. But she couldn't give up, she couldn't walk away now, when she was so close.

"Well last time I checked, this was _my_ life."

"Yeah, and you're hiding in this case instead of _living_ it!" Espo's voice boomed, echoed through the loft, and then he calmed down, pleading eyes directed at her; begging her. "You could be happy, Beckett. You deserve it!"

But they didn't understand. Didn't know that she was doing this to find her happiness, to get past it all so she could _be_. For him. She'd promised to try, and this was the only way she knew how.

* * *

She hardly felt it, when the bullet pierced her chest.

She'd always thought she'd take a bullet, that that's how she would go. She hadn't expected it to feel so surreal.

So peaceful.

The pain was debilitating, her ribs cracked apart, splintering, hot heat spearing her flesh, sucking the breath right out of her lungs and then the bright, surreal blue sky faded into a gleaming white, the world around her a mere blur, as if dipped in thick London fog, and she felt nothing.

"Come on, Kate. Stay with me." Lanie's voice, crying and pleading and yelling at her. It seemed to come from far, far away, slogging its way through the mist, as if she was underwater. She'd never heard her friend sound so cracked before, so hysterical. "Stay with me, Kate." There was pressure against her ribs and she just couldn't breathe, couldn't breathe.

And then she opened her eyes and there he was, seeming to fade in from within the gleaming white haze.

 _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. I tried, Rick. I really tried to live, to be happy without you._

He came clearer, seemed larger than life. _Oh Kate._

He looked just like she remembered, his face so handsome, and kind, and so full of love when he looked at her that it overwhelmed her, crying and laughter blending into one.

 _I don't want to fight anymore_. She cried, pleaded with him, with the universe, with anyone who'd listen.

 _I just want you._

 _Always._ He held his palm out to her and she reached for him, folded her slim hand into the broad warmth of his.

He smiled, joy sparkling in his eyes as he clasped her fingers, and she felt weightless, like a cotton cloud on a clear summer day, drifting toward the sun. Warm, and light, and happy.

Kate rose, and stepped toward him into the light.

The monitor screeched its endless, uninterrupted signal.

* * *

She wakes harshly, startled and breathing heavily, her lungs clawing for breath, like nails scrabbling at the organ's tissue. The screeching assaults her ears and she reaches over, slams her palm over the snooze button on the alarm clock. The silence feels almost as deafening; womb-like pressure over her ears.

Her wounds protest fiercely at any sudden movement, the bullet hole throbbing and the thin red lines where the scalpel had sliced her open burning like fire as they heal. She moans and hot tears shoot into her eyes, and she tries to focus on her breathing, in and out, in and out, slowly, carefully, until the raging fire in her chest quiets into glowing ambers, until the anxious, breathless panic choking her is kept at bay once more.

Shit, those pain meds really give her weird dreams. Kate tries to clear her head of the white haze that seems lodged in her brain, yet the images stay, stark and crystal-clear.

Usually the dreams are a blur of crazy scenes, a wild drug-induced carnival ride that makes no sense, yet this one was like watching a movie - a movie that starred her, that drew her into its story and won't let her go.

She remembers every second, every moment, every emotion.

It was just a dream, she tells herself, has to remind herself when the anxiety tries to choke her and her heart hurts and her chest feels cracked open all over again. _Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream._

All morning she drags around those feelings, while she rolls herself out of bed, and during the careful shower routine that still takes her thirty minutes to complete; while she chokes down the breakfast her father has prepared for her, and while she sits in the deck chair out by the dock, listening to the crickets and the lake lapping against its shoreline, unable to concentrate on the book she's carried outside with her.

But the dream is burned into her brain, playing and re-playing, and she can barely keep the panic at bay, the lingering sense of-

Loss.

"Daddy." It's almost lunch time and he's stirring soup, stops to take her in, worry in his gaze. She's rarely ever called him that past the first years of adolescence.

"What is it, sweetheart?"

"Can you take me home?" She tries not to cry. "Back to the city?"

* * *

The elevator is being repaired, and it feels like the worst thing that could happen to her right now. It's been four weeks, and she's made great strides healing from being shot and carved open, yet stairs still feel like climbing Mount Everest with no shoes on and two broken legs. And no oxygen tank. She has to rest at every landing to catch her breath, leaning against the cool wall and waiting for the burning in her lungs to subside to a manageable level.

It's four flights to his loft, and by the time she makes it into the hallway her cheeks feel flushed and she's sticky with sweat, her knees weak and wobbling.

Kate knocks, has to resist the urge to lean her forehead against the front door and close her eyes just for a moment.

It's been four weeks since she last saw him. It feels like a lifetime.

The door swings open and then he's in front of her, tall and broad and familiar, and she wants to weep with relief. He's alive. They both are. _Castle._

"Kate!" He sounds surprised, his face carefully neutral. She wants to answer, to say something, _anything_ , but she's gasping for breath, presses her fist over her sternum where the puckered scar seems to pulsate, and feels her heart racing beneath the cage of her barely-healed ribs.

"Oh god Beckett, are you okay?" His palms curve around her elbow and her shoulder; he's trying to guide her inside the loft but she stumbles into him instead, crashes against the wide wall of his chest. Fingers clawed into his shirt she stays there, inhales the familiar scent - laundry detergent and wood smoke and expensive cologne. She wants to weep. He's always smelled like that, she realizes, and how has she never before wondered how he could smell comforting like wood smoke when he lives in the middle of the city and doesn't own a wood-burning fireplace.

Her thoughts are racing, jumping to random places and then his arms fold closed around her, his hands framing her ribcage on either side. His touch is light, so careful with her, as if she was a bird, fragile in his palms. He's murmuring comforting sounds, cradling her against him and then she really is weeping, and sucking air into her lungs between sobs that seem to dredge up from deep inside, her whole torso wrenched and heaving, pain shooting from her barely healed scars and damn it, it wasn't supposed to be like this! She was supposed to be better, healed, before she saw him again, that was the whole point of recuperating in her father's cabin but it's been four weeks and she's a complete mess and she can't live without him.

"I love you." She weeps it into the curve of his neck, whispers the words to his warm skin. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

"Kate." He's curving one palm to her jaw, cradling her face, tilting her head up so that her eyes meet the piercing blue of his. He looks stunned, mouth open and eyes wide, and her heart is leaping, throbbing, her scar burning with it. She presses her hand over her sternum, tries to breathe in, and out, and in.

"Hey, hey it's okay." His voice is so soothing that she wants to just close her eyes, fall asleep curled against his chest. God, she's missed him. Hadn't realized just how much. Castle lifts his right arm, carefully sets his palm atop her hand that she's pressed over her scar, and the pressure is just right, helps her breathe, contains the stabbing pains in her ribs, his warmth like a balm to her frayed edges.

"I wanted to be better than this," she whispers. Exhaustion has claimed her voice, makes her words sound raw. "Healed. Not so messed up. Better for you."

"I don't need you any different than exactly who you are, Kate Beckett." He's tugging her closer, as much as he's able to with both their arms pressed between them, his look serious, determined. "I just need _you_. I love you, Kate.

Her stomach flutters; the joy of hearing him say it again feels like a hot drink on a cold winter's day, spreading warmth through her body, into her limbs and fingertips, displacing the icy claws of fear. She laughs and cries, can't help it, sniffles. "I know. I've- known," she admits quietly, raising her eyes to his, hoping he'll understand.

"And it scared me. Still scares me, a little bit, but I realized what scares me the most is that we might miss our chance. That it passes us by. I don't want us to miss our chance. I don't want to miss out on you, Rick. I love you, and I want to spend every day in the warmth of your smile, and the strength of your embrace."

* * *

He insists that she needs to get some rest, and she wants to protest, wants to revel in every moment with him except her knees buckle, and her breathing is laborious, her skin uncomfortably clammy.

"Stay with me?" She's curled on her side in his bed, her knees drawn up and a pillow wedged against her chest that adds pressure across the scar tissue. Her eyes are already falling closed but she watches him anyway, blinking with heavy lids as he walks around the bed, crawls beneath the covers behind her, spooning the curve of her back with his body, warm and broad and real. _Alive._

He folds an arm around her, his forearm pressed across the pillow to hold it in place over her sternum. His breath whispers through the wispy hairs at the back of her neck, and she presses a soft kiss to each of his knuckles, two, three, four, even as her breathing evens out, and her eyes sink inexorably closed.

When she wakes up, he's still there.

* * *

 _The End_

* * *

 _a/n: Thank you for reading!_


End file.
